Song of the Phoenix
by Almyra
Summary: AU, prequel to LMB. Peter and Edmund are late to the train station that fatal morning and miss the derailment that would have taken them to the Real Narnia. Now they must deal with the aftermath and find the strength and courage to keep on living.
1. And So Goodbye

**AN: **This story is an alternate universe exploration of what might have become of Peter and Susan and Edmund had the two boys been late to the train station on the morning of the derailment and crash (as seen in _The Last Battle_). It is something of a prequel and a companion piece to my longer, in-progress story, _The Land of Make Believe_, and it establishes some of the relationships and emotions found therein.  
Also, I'd like to apologize for the many mistakes I have undoubtedly made in portraying both the "process" of death and general culture in late 1940's Britain. I'd rather not go off half-cocked and sound like the written equivalent of an American trying on a very bad British accent, so I do what I can and ignore the rest. Please forgive the missteps. (smile)  
And now, for the story… Enjoy!

* * *

**Song of the Phoenix**_  
_

_"The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me, because the LORD has anointed me…to comfort all who mourn, and provide for those who grieve in Zion – to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair." _  
Isaiah 61:1a, 2b-3a, NIV

**1. And So Goodbye…**

"Peter!" Edmund hollered, from the bottom of the stairs, "Come on!" He raked his fingers through his dark hair and checked his wrist-watch for the umpteenth time. Random bumps and bangs came from the bedroom upstairs, and the teenager sighed. "Lucy's going to be pretty put-out with us if we're late!" he yelled, perturbed.

"I _know_!" came the shouted response, "but I can't find my keys!"

Edmund glanced over to the hall table and arched an eyebrow at the bunch of car and house keys lying higgledy-piggledy beside the vase of flowers his mother always kept fresh. He smirked, the smile stretching even wider as an aggravated "Argh!" and a particularly loud bang told him his older brother was most unhappy. It was a pity they had to be immediately on their way; he would have enjoyed letting this amusing scenario play out to its logical conclusion.

"They're down here!" he called, giving in to the inevitable.

Peter suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs, his blond hair tousled and his face flushed with exertion. "And how long have you been holding onto that tasty little tidbit?" he asked, thundering down the steps like a herd of elephants.

The younger Pevensie grinned. "Don't get your nose all out of joint, Pete," he said, "I just saw them. It's too bad I'm more afraid of Lucy's wrath than yours – I could have had some fun."

Blue eyes narrowed, and Edmund threw his head back and laughed.

"I oughta punch you in the nose," Peter groused good-naturedly, jamming his feet into his walking shoes and hastily tying the laces. He stuck out a hand, and Edmund pulled him up, steadying him as he swayed. He grabbed his keys off the table and pulled on his jacket, and then turned again to his brother. "Do you have the rings?" he asked.

Edmund patted his pocket, a serious expression abruptly replacing his mirth. "Right here."

Peter straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin as Edmund had seen him do many times before ordering a charge or heading into a room full of diplomats. "All right then," he said firmly, "Let's go."

They locked the front door behind them and went to the curbside where the Pevensie family car was parked. "That knee still bothering you, Ed?" Peter asked, seeing that a slight limp marred his brother's stride.

Edmund grimaced as he got into the car. "More or less," he said, tenderly kneading the aching joint in question, "It's not too bad now."

His older brother climbed into the driver's seat. "You should have seen the doctor," he said, lightly reproving, as he turned the key in the ignition, gave it a little choke, and gently pulled on the starter knob, mentally crossing his fingers as he did so. To both his and Edmund's pronounced relief, the engine coughed, spluttered, and turned over with a gutteral roar, and a gout of black smoke shot from the tailpipe.

"_This_ thing needs to see a doctor," the teenager said, thumping the dashboard. "You never know when it's going to work and when it's not. Wish we could afford something a bit more reliable."

"Not until Dad gets a little more in the way of money," Peter responded, shifting into gear and turning out into the main street, "You know how abysmally he's paid."

Edmund made a disapproving noise in the back of his throat, and silence fell for a moment.

"Do you think this will work, Ed?" Peter asked, his eyes on traffic, which, thankfully, was light.

His younger brother pursed his lips and absentmindedly went on rubbing his knee. "I honestly don't know," he said, "I mean, I'm pretty sure the _rings_ will work. You can tell that, just by looking at them. But as for the rest…I don't know. Jill and Scrubb have their wits about them, though; you needn't worry on their account."

Peter sighed. "I wish we could go," he said, and although there was a touch of longing, no bitterness marred the words.

"Well, we're helping," Edmund said with a small smile. "We procured the passport to Narnia – or at least to the Wood Between the Worlds. You can't tell me you didn't have fun dressing up and digging in the dirt – nothing like a little skull-duggery and intrigue to start the day out right."

The young man turned the car around a corner and made no reply, but Edmund saw the pinched look on his face and the stubborn set to his jaw. "Look," he said, "I know what you mean. I'd like to go back myself, but…"

"No," his older brother interrupted, sudden strain lacing his voice, "Something's wrong…" and with a startling bang and a horrible jerk, the right front tire blew out. Peter wrenched the wheel to the left, putting all his strength into the motion, and he managed to keep them from diving off the embankment. "…it's pulling awfully to the right," he finished lamely as he applied the brake and maneuvered them as far off the road as he could.

Edmund threw himself back against his seat in frustration and groaned. "Egad, couldn't this have happened at a better time?" he asked as Peter got out and walked to the front of the car to survey the damage. "Like when we're going to the dentist? I'd do anything to have the tires give out then."

The eldest Pevensie stood for a moment with his fists on his hips and then glared through the windshield at Edmund. "I'd appreciate a little help, here, instead of smart comments," he said, annoyed.

"All right, keep your hair on," the teenager shot back as he opened the door and stepped out, unfolding his lanky body to its near six feet in height. He joined his brother and folded his arms, staring down at the flattened and slightly shredded ring of vulcanized rubber. "Is the spare in the boot?" he asked, "We'll have to change it here."

Peter nodded and briefly massaged the bridge of his nose. "Yes, and yes," he replied, taking off his jacket and unbuttoning and rolling up his shirtsleeves. "Let's get to it. It won't change itself."

For the next twenty minutes they were busy jacking up the front, unscrewing nuts, wrestling tires, and generally getting greasy, dirty, and short-tempered. A few well-meaning motorists stopped to offer assistance but were waved on their way with thanks. When the brothers were finally finished and on the road once more, Edmund checked his watch and nearly swore.

"We're late," he said, and his older brother gave him an irritated look. "No, I mean we're _really_ late. I'll be surprised if Lucy hasn't gotten impatient and ordered a cab."

Peter checked the mirror and pulled over a bit to let an ambulance in full cry zoom past. "She won't have," he said, "You know how keen she is on doing this all together – and she's right to feel so. Either she or Aunt Polly _will_ probably lecture us about the importance of being prompt, though, so gird your loins." Edmund chuckled.

A few miles later, another ambulance went by, and then several police cars and a fire truck, all shrieking alarms and jangling bells. "Well, something's up," Edmund remarked, craning his neck to look behind them, "Must be pretty bad."

There was no reply from Peter, and the younger Pevensie glanced over, frowning until he glimpsed his brother's face. He didn't think he'd ever witnessed an expression of such fear, and the sight made his own body seize with undeniable terror. Peter's blue eyes were wide and full of horrified, frantic anxiety, his lips were compressed into a tense, thin line, and his knuckles were bone-white as he gripped the wheel so tightly Edmund thought he would crumple it.

"Peter?" he asked sharply, and when the young man wouldn't look at him, wouldn't even acknowledge his question, Edmund faced front and a dreadful, unspeakable suspicion began to blossom in the back of his mind.

"Oh, God," he breathed, a short, desperate prayer, and the beating of his heart grew faster and louder, nearly deafening, as traffic thickened and slowed, more emergency vehicles joining the crush and being let through, all moving in the direction of West Ham station.


	2. Ashes to Ashes

**AN:** The name of Frank for Mr. Pevensie belongs to the talented Capegio.  
And many, many thanks to the incomparable elecktrum for making sure this whole thing was fit for public consumption.

* * *

_The lights go out all around me  
One last candle to keep out the night  
And then the darkness surrounds me  
I know I'm alive  
But I feel like I've died_  
+ _Beauty from Pain, _vs. 1, by Superchick 

**2. Ashes to Ashes**

"I'm sorry, son, you can't come in here," the policeman said firmly, professionally, although his manner was not unkindly.

Peter hardly spared him a glance - instead his eyes were focused on the chaos beyond the official cordon: ambulances, fire-trucks, white-uniformed paramedics, all kinds of people, running, stumbling, sobbing, screaming, some sitting in little groups, stunned, dull, in shock. The small station building looked as though a giant had crushed it on one side with a massive fist - it listed badly, and broken boards, glass, and shingles littered the ground.

He could see the twisted remains of the train, lying half-on, half-off the tracks, jack-knifed, with many of the passenger carriages crumpled. A hot, choking, metallic smell filled the air, punctuated with an undercurrent of coal and, far more ominous, a faint tang of blood. He broke forward, his only thought to get to the train, to get to Lucy. He had to make it, had to get there in time - he knew everything would be all right if he could just find his sister - take her away - get some help. She would be fine - she had to be, _had to be_, **_had to be_**.

The policeman hastily grabbed the young man's shoulders, tightening his grip when Peter tried to shake him off. A wild, frantic look began to slide over the young man's face; his eyes were wide and almost blank, glassy. "Let me go!" he snapped, in a voice not wholly his own, not even looking at the older man, still fighting to free himself.

"Now, now, you can't - hold on, there, young chap, calm down!" the policeman said, finding that Peter was much stronger than he appeared. "Look, you must stay here! What, you think others aren't waiting, too? Here now, watch that!"

Edmund, who was feeling quite sick to his stomach and trying not to throw up right then and there, reached out and took his brother's flailing right arm, catching it just as Peter drew it back and clenched his hand into a fist. "Hey, Peter," he said, as calmly as he could, knowing that when the older boy was afraid for one of his own, he could be nigh unreachable - and unstoppable - fighting past any obstacle with an almost berserker frenzy.

"Peter," he said again, holding on, pulling, bringing his brother's body around with the policeman's help, facing him. His breaking heart cracked a little deeper upon seeing the expression of unreasoning terror in Peter's eyes, and he swallowed sour bile, praying he wouldn't lose face by upchucking in front of the officer. Not _yet_. _Control._

"Listen to me, Peter," he said, grasping the other's shoulders, giving him a little shake, "Listen - be still! It's me, alright? It's Edmund. Get ahold of yourself - breathe! Deeper! You've got to be calm – for all our sakes!"

Peter focused on his brother's face, as if he finally understood what Edmund was saying to him. He took one shuddering breath and then another, slumping a bit and losing his panicked edge. Bringing his own hands up, he clutched Edmund's upper arms, bending his head, inhaling slower and more deeply each time. "Thank you, Ed," he said at last, "I'm sorry – it's just…" He straightened and turned to the officer, who was watching with some sympathy. "Sir, what can we do? Our sister, cousin, and friends were on that train…"

"…and our parents," Edmund interjected abruptly, whispering, going ghastly white, and reaching out automatically to pluck at his brother's sleeve. "Oh, dear God, our parents were on that train, too."

He flung a desperate look at Peter, who swung about and now stared at him with an open mouth, the blood draining from his face. "What?" the older boy asked sharply, "Are you sure? Weren't they going to see Aunt Harriet?"

Edmund nodded miserably, feeling as though tears should be starting to pool and threatening to fall and wondering rather abstractedly why they were not. "But they were bound to be going by this train," he said, "It's the only one headed in that direction as early as Mum wanted to get started." He felt even worse now, as if the world had turned upside down and inside out. His stomach lurched. "I can't…" he began, and then Peter was beside him, arm around his shoulders.

"Hold on, Ed," came his brother's voice, heavy with his own sorrow, "Hold it together. We don't know for sure that they didn't make it."

With that remark, the teenager glanced over at him, and Peter was sharply and suddenly reminded of another time when the dark brown eyes had been suspiciously bright and full of painful anger, looking up at him from just above Mum's arm with their father's shattered picture beside him.

"Don't be a fool, Peter," came Edmund's voice, breaking the illusion, stained with maturity far beyond his years. "You've never been one to tell lies – don't start now."

The older brother tightened his grip. "I know," he whispered, "but I don't think I can bear it yet otherwise."

They remained so for a few more moments, leaning against one another, giving and taking strength with their heads bent together, dark blond and brownish black, as they regained their composure. Then Peter turned and faced the police officer once again.

"Sir, what can we do? We'd like to help – we need to find our parents, our sister…" he trailed off.

The officer placed a hand on Peter's shoulder and squeezed comfortingly. "You aren't gonna like this, young fellow, and I can't say as I would either, was I in your place. But you need to go home, though they'll most likely be callin' you back 'ventually. You can't do nothing here now 'cept be in the way."

Peter nodded, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming at the man, knowing he was only doing his job, knowing they would indeed just be in the way, knowing there was nothing they could do except _wait_.

"Can we leave our names with someone?" Edmund asked from beside him, "So we can be contacted?"

The policeman nodded, seemingly relieved he could be of helpful service, or at least glad to get them out of his hair. He indicated a white-coated woman standing further on down the cordon, holding a clipboard and calmly speaking with a frightened older couple.

Edmund thanked the officer, and slowly, trying not to look at the disaster scene unfolding, trying not to hear the shouts of the paramedics, the cries of the wounded, or the screams of those still trapped, the brothers made their way towards her through the gathering crowd of onlookers.

Stopping at a respectful distance, they waited – Peter with his arms crossed, gripping his elbows as tightly as he could to keep the shaking down; Edmund with his hands fisted and shoved deeply in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. The woman, who seemed to be much, much younger than she had looked from a distance, glanced at them out of the corner of her eye and then smiled reassuringly at the older couple in front of her.

"I have your names here, Mr. and Mrs. Abernathy," she said, tipping the clipboard slightly, "and while I understand how difficult this is for you, it would be best if you returned to your home. We will be contacting you as soon as we are able."

Mrs. Abernathy clutched her husband's arm, tears flowing down her plump cheeks. "Please," she said shakily, "Please hurry. I can't bear not knowing!"

"Come now, Mabel," Mr. Abernathy said hoarsely, gently, "There are others here to see Miss Schillair. We must remember we are not the only ones suffering."

Peter met the older man's gaze as he led his wife away from the cordon and exchanged the brief nod of soldiers meeting on a battlefield – surrounded by loss of life and limb and weighed down with the anguish of surviving.

"May I take your names, please?" the young woman – who was probably about his own age, the older Pevensie guessed – faced them politely, waiting until they were able to concentrate on her.

"Peter and Edmund Pevensie," Edmund replied.

She wrote this down and then looked back up. Edmund was struck by how little she was – slight and petite. The white coat nearly swallowed her whole. "And you were to meet someone here?" she asked.

"Yes," Peter answered, gulping down the hard lump of tears clogging his throat. "Quite a list of people, actually," he added with a soggy-sounding chuckle.

"Our parents," Edmund added, grimly determined to make it through the recitation, "Frank and Helen Pevensie. Our sister, Lucy Pevensie," he paused, glancing over at his brother. "And a cousin – Eustace Scrubb. His parents, Harold and Alberta, should be notified."

The young woman nodded matter-of-factly, her pencil moving rapidly. Her brisk, capable manner put him oddly at ease, kept the list of names just that – a list of names. "Jill Pole – I don't know her parents' names, do you?" he asked Peter, who shook his head. "And then two other friends – I don't know if they have any family still living. Polly Plummer and…" he hesitated, thinking of the kind, jolly, wise old man who had taken them in as children.

"Professor Digory Kirke," put in Peter, "We need to know about all of them, not just our…" a hitch, "…blood relatives. It's very important. Please."

"Important, yes," she repeated, light hazel eyes settling on him for a moment, evaluating. "Very well. Your address?"

Peter gave it to her, and she made a notation on the paper. "As I am sure you heard, as hard as it is –"

"You need us to go home and wait there," Edmund said, and the young woman flashed a very quick, humorless smile.

"You have a very good memory, Mr. Pevensie," she said, and then her expression softened just a bit. "I know the waiting is terrible. But believe me, it is better than being here."

They both raised their eyes to look at the tragedy unfolding behind the slender young woman and the cordon she defended. The paramedics were just beginning to carry shrouded stretchers to a shaded area near the station, and the thought that it might be Lucy, or Mum, or Dad, or even Eustace lying silently beneath the white sheet made Edmund's stomach lurch again. He had been no stranger to death in Narnia, even when it struck those close to his heart, but he had never imagined he might lose loved ones – family and friends – like this, _here_, in one fell, bloody, horrible swoop. But then, who ever did?

"Come on, Ed," his brother said, and there was suddenly a new note of worry and sorrow to his voice. "She's right, and besides. We have to tell Susan."


	3. Dust to Dust

**AN:** The D.L.P. stands for whatever Peter and Edmund want - dear little problem, damn lotta pain, etc. - and exists thanks to elecktrum's story, _Those Who Serve_. In it, Edmund is given knowledge of the Deplorable Word, and since it wreaks havoc upon him when he thinks of it, he and his brother have come up with a way of 'hiding' it, if referencing it is necessary. Many thanks to elecktrum for use of the Word and for help in understanding it!  
This chapter is gratefully dedicated to that same elecktrum, JediMan, narniaqueen33, and imakeladrygirl. You're all terrific!

* * *

_And all that's left is to accept that it's over  
My dreams ran like sand through the fists that I made  
I try to keep warm but I just grow colder  
I feel like I'm slipping away  
+ Beauty from Pain_, vs. 2, by Superchick 

**3. Dust to Dust**

"Is Susan working today?" Peter asked, as they got back into the car.

"I'm fairly sure she is," Edmund replied, "I think Thursday is her afternoon. But I say, Peter," and here he glanced over at his brother searchingly. "Are you well enough to drive?"

"Give me a minute or two," his brother said, pinching his temples between thumb and forefinger.

They sat for several moments, marshalling their courage, when Peter suddenly cleared his throat and said, in a rather odd, strained tone, "You realize, don't you, Ed, that if we hadn't had that flat, we would have been at the station when the train came in?"

Edmund looked at his brother steadily and tightened his lips. "No one is ever told what _would_ have happened," he said almost sharply, "and even though we're both thinking it, it would _not_ have been better if we had been there. Wishing ourselves dead now does no one any good, Peter, and you know it."

His older brother bit his lip and there were a few heartbeats of tense silence. "Who said anything about death?" he questioned finally, "We have the rings."

Edmund nearly sat on his hands to keep them from going immediately to his jacket. They had the rings, indeed. The small cloth bag had been burning a hole in his pocket since they'd seen the horror of the crash.

"No, Peter," he said, forcing the words out between gritted teeth. "We can't."

"Can't?" Peter asked querulously, that wild, frantic expression coming back into his eyes. "_Can't?_ Hasn't the responsibility for helping Narnia been placed on us now? We _must_!"

"What are you playing at?" Edmund replied sharply, "You know as well as I do, Peter, that Aslan said we couldn't go back. You want to use them, the rings? To disobey _him_?"

The older boy was breathing hard. "Am I not your High King?" he asked, his tone one which brooked no argument. "Do you not answer to my command? You will do as I say!"

The teenager straightened in his seat, feeling a jolt of real anger. "I will do no such thing!" he said harshly, and the older boy reared back as though he'd been struck.

"You _defy _me?" he said dangerously, his eyes gleaming, burnished steel.

"Yes!" Edmund snapped fiercely, not frightened in the least. "To use helping Narnia as an excuse to escape this tragedy is _beneath_ you, my lord and will bring nothing but further sorrow. Who are you, sir, to disregard a direct injunction placed upon us by Aslan himself? And who are you to determine where Lucy and the rest have gone? Can you storm Heaven by virtue of your title and station? Can you, _Peter_, Son of_ Adam?_"

Peter stared at him, shocked back into reality; thunderstruck by his brother's words, and then collapsed completely, burying his face in his hands. "Oh, Edmund," he breathed hoarsely, "I'm sorry. You're right, of course; how could I have said such things? Forgive me, I'm so sorry."

"I know, Peter," Edmund said quietly, "and I forgive you. But you'll forgive _me_ if I keep the rings."

Peter bit his lip again and started the car, and then he gripped the wheel resolutely. "If you can handle the D.L.P., you can handle the rings," he said, "And you've already shown yourself the better man. Hide them again, or better yet, destroy them if you can – and don't _ever_ tell me what you've done."

The younger boy nodded. "Hadn't you better wait a few more minutes?" he asked, concerned. "Are you sure you're well enough?"

"Don't ask, and I will be," his older brother said, putting his left hand on the back of Edmund's seat and looking over his shoulder as he backed the car out of the parking spot. "I did a slap-dash job of this," he said, maneuvering carefully, his blue eyes narrowed in concentration.

Edmund decided it would be counter-productive to mention that Peter had had a very good reason for parking haphazardly. He propped his elbow up next to the window and leaned against his hand. Though his stomach still churned with a faint, clinging sensation of queasiness, thankfully the immediate danger of sickness had passed. Sudden, throbbing stabs of pain threatened to split his head open, but he wasn't sure if it was due to his brother's oblique reference to the Deplorable Word or their own difficult situation. He supposed it didn't really matter. Neither he nor Peter said anything further, and the air was thick with unshed tears and unendurable loss.

Somehow, it didn't seem quite real to him yet. His _parents_, gone? Never again seeing Lucy, the sister who meant most to him now? Not to mention that blighter Eustace, or the Professor. Aunt Polly. Jill. What was he going to do? God, he thought, praying desperately, _**what** am I going to **do**_? He shifted in the seat and caught Peter's strong profile and immediately felt profoundly thankful that at least his rock had not been taken as well.

* * *

The bell above the door tinkled merrily when Edmund opened it, and almost before he'd had a chance to set foot in the establishment, a perky blonde wearing far too much makeup stepped right in his path. "How might I help you, sirs?" Even her voice bubbled. "Here to find something special for your lady? Perfume, perhaps? A scarf? We have a lovely selection." Edmund resisted the urge to smack her. 

Peter, who had not been paying attention as he came in behind, nearly ran the teenager over when he stopped short. Edmund felt him stumble and smiled wryly at the softly muttered curse. The great High King, swearing. He wished things were better, so he could razz Peter good about his slip. He settled for less. "Language, Pete," he murmured over his shoulder, receiving a hard poke in the side for his pains.

He moved forward further into the shop, forcing the girl to take a few steps backwards, and shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. "Is Susan here?" he asked.

When her gaze had taken in both him and Peter and the somber expressions on their faces, the blonde faltered a bit, and her practiced, perfect smile vanished. "Susan?" she repeated hesitantly, and Peter sighed, a short, sharp sound which usually boded ill for whomever was wasting time dithering.

"Susan Pevensie," he said brusquely, and the salesgirl nodded, confidence restored upon hearing a name she recognized.

"Yes, Suzie's here," she turned and gestured to the far end of the narrow shop. "To the back and right."

They thanked her and walked slowly to the rear of the shop, the old floorboards creaking beneath their shoes, the narrow counters stretching out on either side with high shelves running nearly floor to ceiling behind them, packed with all manner of things womanly.

Susan was standing stretched on her tip-toes, reaching up to mark the end of a long box tucked back on a shelf, her glossy, shoulder-length black hair swinging. She came back down onto her heels, task completed, and turned around, tucking the pencil back behind her ear. When she saw who stood there at the counter, she jumped, and then her face drained of color.

"What's happened?" she asked, her voice low and taut. "Something's wrong. What is it? What's _wrong_?"

Edmund felt the tears he had thus far held at bay begin to prick at his eyes at last, and he didn't dare answer, for fear he would break down. That would shame Susan, and so he fought against it fiercely, hunching his shoulders and refusing to speak.

"You need to come with us, Su," his older brother said thickly, "Can you get off?"

Their sister put a hand to her heart and convulsively clutched at her white, button-down blouse. "What reason should I give?" she whispered, challenging. Terrified.

"A family emergency," Edmund replied, meeting her eyes finally and knowing she read the truth therein. She all but bolted from them then and disappeared through a tall door marked 'Employees Only' in prim, gold lettering.

Minutes later, she was back, thrusting her arms into her jacket as she walked, clutching her handbag – the one Lucy bought her for Christmas last year; her solid, sturdy heels beat out a cracking, staccato tempo on the squeaky floor. She swept past them all, bidding her working colleagues a swift farewell as she went, a veritable whirlwind of nerves and tension. Peter and Edmund followed after her, dreading what was to come.

Once outside, she marched directly for the car and spun about, clutching the handbag to her chest. "Now," she said, "Tell me what's wrong, you two. It had better be worth losing a day's wages."

"Oh, it is," Peter answered softly, not meeting her gaze and practically crushing the keys in his fist. He stared at them, his eyes blank, and Edmund saw him beginning to shake again.

"Peter." Susan's voice was razor-thin and bordering on angry. She was still as white as a sheet, and her lips were trembling. "Stop it. Look at me. _Look_ at me! What has _happened_?"

Their older brother finally raised his head again, and tears were trickling down his cheeks. "There's been a bad accident, Su. Very bad. The train they were…the train derailed. Mum, Dad, Lucy, Eustace, the Professor…all _gone_…" his grief finally caught and consumed him, and with that, seeing Peter beginning to weep, Edmund's control broke as well.

"_What_?" Susan whispered, her dark eyes moving from one to the other of her brothers, shocked into unbelief. "If this is a bloody joke, it's not funny."

"Would we joke about something like this?" Edmund demanded, irritation flaming up in spite of his tears, "Susan, they're probably dead. Do you hear me? Our parents – our sister – our cousin – our friends – an accident like that that means _dead_. _Gone_. And if they are, they're _never _coming back!"

His voice went deadly soft, almost to a whisper, and she stared at him for a moment, frightened beyond words, her red lips forming a round 'o'. She glanced back over at Peter, who gave a hiccupping sob and clenched his jaw, his blue eyes swimming. "It's true, Susan," he said. "God help us, but it's true."

Their sister spun on her heel, jerked at the door handle, pulled, couldn't get it unlatched, and yanked again, so hard that the door abruptly flew wide open and nearly dumped her on her backside. She flung herself into the seat and slammed the door closed behind her, sitting ramrod straight against the cushions.

Peter and Edmund looked at one another, completely miserable, and then Peter wiped his eyes with thumb and forefinger. "Don't ever have a handkerchief when I need one," he said hoarsely, and the fact hung unspoken between them that Lucy always did.


	4. Once a King or Queen in Narnia

**AN:** It's taken me a long, slow time even to approach understanding Susan and her reasons for turning away. I don't know why, but I find it difficult to get inside her head - most likely because I still cling to my fairy-tale besotted younger self's gape-jawed "Why would anyone _want _to forget Narnia?" at that part in the _Last Battle_. I know reading other authors' interpretations have helped me see her in a different light, and I know I have been influenced by those interpretations, so if my take seems familiar, that is probably why.  
And Mikela, in re your review of chapter 2 (Ashes to Ashes), you are _not _loony - in fact, you are absolutely correct! Very sharp eyes - you're the only one who caught that - or at least the only one who said so. (grin)

* * *

_My whole world is the pain inside me  
The best I can do is just get through the day  
When life before is only a memory  
I wonder why God let me walk through this place  
+ Beauty from Pain_, vs. 3, by Superchick 

**4. Once a King or Queen in Narnia…**

The drive home seemed to take an interminably long time, with Susan sitting silently in the back, refusing to speak and refusing to make eye contact, not that Edmund tried beyond once. Peter was too busy driving and biting his lip to keep from breaking down again to notice anything other than the moisture in his eyes and the pain in his heart.

When they pulled up to the curb in front of their house, Susan was out of the car like a shot as soon as Peter killed the engine, pulling her keys from her handbag with a harsh jingle, and viciously jamming the correct one into the front door lock. She went inside and left the door standing wide open. The brothers could hear her stomping up the stairs, and then the faint sound of another door banging shut came to their ears. Peter watched her go, and a choked sigh escaped him.

Upon entering the house, Peter deposited his keys on the hall table and set about removing his jacket and then his shoes, all without saying a word. The hallway was shadowed, the late afternoon sun streaming in through the sitting room windows instead, and Edmund was struck by the silence. Off to his left, he could hear the grandfather clock, ticking-tocking steadily.

Everything seemed the same, familiar, and yet everything had changed, he thought as he quietly closed the front door and took off his own jacket. He looked down at the brown walking shoes on his feet and considered that now he probably didn't have to obey his mother's directive to remove them upon coming inside. He swallowed hard and bent down to untie the laces.

There was a creak, and Edmund looked up to see Peter climbing the stairs. "I wouldn't," he said warningly, but the older boy gave him that stubborn look he knew so very well.

"I have to talk to her," he said, and the teenager shook his head.

"Bad timing," he replied, working the shoes off his feet and placing them beside Peter's. "Let her alone, Pete."

His brother set his jaw and narrowed his eyes. "I'm going to lance this boil _now,_" he said, and though his words were soft, they were hard, intense. Edmund almost stepped back a pace. "Then perhaps it will bleed out and heal. I've left it too long already." And he turned and continued on up, his shoulders stiff.

He reached the bedroom Susan and Lucy shared and knocked gently at the closed door. "Susan?" he called, "Su, let me in."

There was no response, and so Peter knocked again. "Come on, Susan," he said, "Please. Talk to me. _Please_. I – I know why you're angry, and we need to discuss it. We need each other… Please, _please_, talk to me, Su…"

He was in tears again now. For all his determination to hash out the root of their problem, to air words that would be said eventually – he could feel them bubbling beneath the surface, and already he had shouldered their weight – all he really wanted was to wrap his remaining sister in a hug and sob into her shoulder.

The door was suddenly wrenched open, and Peter found himself facing Susan the Gentle in all her fury. Her face was red and streaked with make-up, and her dark eyes were swollen and still weeping. She had a stranglehold on one of Lucy's handkerchiefs, and her body was rigid. "This," she hissed, holding it out and shaking it in her older brother's face, "is all _your_ fault."

And there it was. Edmund, watching from the top step, half expected Peter to go paler still and accept those words without a qualm, slumping uncomplaining beneath their load of guilt as he usually did. He was rather surprised though, when the older boy simply compressed his lips, remained calm and stood tall, only asking, "Why?" through a film of tears. Susan inhaled, gathering herself for the onslaught.

"You're the _eldest_, Peter; you're supposed to set an example to us all, especially the younger ones! Lucy _idolized_ you; you were her hero, her bloody _knight in shining armor_! And you went on encouraging her – not to mention the rest – to keep on playing those _stupid_ games! _You_, Peter! _You_, who ought to have _known_ better! Who ought to be _grown up_!" Susan was nearly screaming now, her voice having risen shrilly with each sentence, all the bottled up emotion coming out in a garbled, tumbled rush.

Edmund clenched his fists, feeling his old black anger building like a thundercloud, watching Peter take their sister's accusing words without flinching and wanting to jump in, to deflect her rage onto himself. They had spent many years following one another's lead, however, and he understood that if Peter needed him, he would let him know. For now, he remained silent and attentive, waiting rather impatiently on the High King's command.

"What do you mean, 'stupid games'?" Peter asked, and Susan colored even deeper, bright, hot anger burning in her eyes.

"Don't be a _complete_ idiot," she said vehemently, "You know exactly what I mean. _Narnia_! Those silly, _ridiculous_, absolutely _childish_ games about Narnia!"

The oldest Pevensie blinked and dashed away trickling moisture. "Narnia," he said, and there was a new note to his voice. "So it's about Narnia."

"You know it is," she responded heatedly. "It always has been."

Peter smiled, but there was no humor in it. "Come now, Susan, you yourself insist it's just a story. Just a game. Why, then, does it bother you so much that the rest of us believe it?"

Susan's mouth worked for a moment, and then she found her thought. "_This_ is why!" she cried, lifting the handkerchief again, a raging, grieving triumph on her face, "Because your believing it has _destroyed_ our family, Peter! Now, because of your encouragement, our mother and father and sister are _dead_! You have been and are a _fool_, and now we are paying for it!"

Edmund could stand it no longer. "That's enough, Su," he said, infuriated, taking a few long steps forward and glaring down at his sister. "You will not speak to Peter that way."

"Why not?" she asked snidely, "Because he's our brother? Family? Head of the house, now that our father is _dead_? Or is it," and her mouth curled into a nasty little smile, "because he's _High __King_?" She waved her hand in an elaborate mockery of a bow and then snorted contemptuously. "Really, Edmund, you're pathetic. One would think you might have ended up with some sense."

"I've been called worse and by worse than you," her brother replied through gritted teeth, trying to let the words roll off his back.

Susan's eyes flashed. "What, a _traitor_?"

He heard Peter growl behind him, low and threatening, but Edmund said nothing, revelation having descended upon him with the bright bursting light of an explosion. "You _do_ remember," he half-whispered, his expression amazed, his brown eyes widening as he hit upon the truth. "You haven't forgotten. You still believe. Why, Su? Why?"

His sister's face went through a series of contortions that told him she was trying very hard not to fly into further hysterics, and then she slumped, crumpling in on herself, her anger morphing into immense sadness and a remnant of defiance. "How _can_ I forget, Edmund?" She sighed, a shaky, treacly sound. "You all wouldn't – won't _let_ me."

"But why do you want to forget, Su?" Peter asked at last, "Narnia – these memories – they're who we are."

"They're who we _were_, brother," Susan replied swiftly, with a hint of venom, "but after being cruelly torn from that world once and then allowed back to find everything – and everyone – I'd known gone, dead, dust for thousands of years…" a quick, indrawn breath, passing over a still open wound, "holding onto them just wasn't – and _isn't_ – worth the effort."

Brittle silence fell at that remark. "And Aslan?" Edmund asked quietly. Looking into his sister's eyes, he saw the wretchedness of hardened grief and denial give him answer, and he felt a single pang of utter sorrow, deeper yet than any he had known that day.

Susan took another trembling breath, desperate, scrabbling for purchase. "We're too old for such things. We just _are_!" On steadier ground now with this oft-repeated refrain, her tone grew more certain. "Maybe it _was_ real – maybe we _were_ there – maybe you really were Magnificent and Edmund was Just and…Lucy was…Valiant and I…I was Gentle. But what meaning do those titles have here?"

"They mean everything, Su," Edmund said, "They were indications of who we have been and who we can be again. We may no longer have the responsibility of ruling a country, but we do have the responsibility to live according to the lessons we learned there." He paused. "And to find – and know – Who it was we met there."

Susan held up her hand, the one still clenching Lucy's damp handkerchief. "No," she said, "I mean it, Ed. _No_. Don't start. Does my belief really change anything? Not now. Not with this." She gave the handkerchief a sad little flourish, and fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. "Especially not after this. No more."

"Susan," Peter said beseechingly, stepping forward and reaching out, his hands extended and his arms open. "Please…"

Their sister balanced on the threshold, hesitating, and Edmund felt his breath catch in his throat, seeing her bite her lip with uncertainty and look at her eldest brother as if she was really seeing someone else, a shadow of the Gentle falling over the ruin of her beautiful face. "Please, Aslan," he found himself praying, "Please, please, please…"

And then Susan sighed heavily, and Peter slowly lowered his arms, and the moment passed.

"Just leave me alone," Susan said softly as she stepped back into the bedroom and made to close the door. "Please."


	5. Always a King or Queen

**AN:** The middle name of Randall was given to Edmund by elecktrum - many thanks for the loan!  
Also, if you are interested, the Narnian royal fanfare Edmund plays is the absolutely beautiful, haunting theme from the early 90s BBC versions of the Chronicles. To me, that music will always _be _Narnia.

* * *

_And though I can't understand why this happened  
I know that I will when I look back someday  
And see how You've brought beauty from ashes  
And made me as gold purified through these flames  
+ Beauty from Pain_, vs. 4, by Superchick 

**4. …Always a King or Queen **

"Edmund?" A gentle knock sounded at the bathroom door. "You finished? We need to be on our way fairly soon."

With a disgusted growl, Edmund tore the black tie from his neck and threw it into the sink as hard as he could. The door opened part way with a shuddering creak, and Peter peered in, eyebrows raised. "I take it that's a 'no'," he said, "What's the trouble, Ed?"

"This bally tie, that's what!" the teenager snapped, indicating the mangled length of cloth lying forlornly against white porcelain, "I can't manage to knot it up properly – it's one of those 'starch included' rags Mum bought at…"

He stopped short, hearing his words, and ground the heel of his palm into his eye, feeling a sob threaten to crawl up his throat and out into public. "I can't do this, Pete," he managed.

Peter said nothing; he simply waited, and Edmund took a deep breath, steeling himself and then glancing back at his brother gratefully. The blue eyes that met his were bright with moisture, but full of the calm understanding and encouragement that had fortified Edmund in the worst situations. "Thanks," he said.

The young man nodded and reached in for the discarded tie. "Come on," he said, "Let me have a go."

"I can jolly well tie my own tie," Edmund groused as Peter made several deft adjustments to the former's collar before sliding the fabric 'round.

"That's not what you just said," came the dry response as long fingers swiftly looped and knotted cloth – and then paused. "Well, hmmm."

A dark eyebrow arched. "Well, hmmm."

Peter cleared his throat, unknotted the tie, completed a series of different loops, and knotted it again. "No, that's not right…"

After a series of tries and retries, a smirking Edmund finally started to snicker. "I think if you'd just let me do it in the first place, it would have been faster."

His older brother frowned, fierce concentration written on his features, as he considered the limp, bedraggled ends trailing down either side of the teenager's neck. "It's different when it's on oneself," he muttered, his hands going to his own tie as if to retrace the steps. Edmund laughed harder.

"Boys?" Aunt Harriet's voice called from downstairs, "Are you ready? Reverend Thomas is here."

The brothers' eyes met, the brittle, bittersweet humor draining from their faces and leaving grim severity behind. "We're coming!" Peter responded as his younger brother took matters into his own hands and knotted his tie with only a cursory check in the mirror.

"Ready?" the older boy asked, and Edmund smiled dourly.

"No," he said, "But I'll make do."

They descended the stairs to find their aunt and uncle, Susan, and the minister overseeing the funerals waiting for them in the sitting room. "Good morning, my sons," said Reverend Thomas, reaching out to shake hands with each of them. "I merely wanted to discuss the order of service with you and then take you over to the church. You'll be allowed a few moments together as a family before we begin."

At their acquiescing nods, he opened his prayer book and began to speak.

* * *

As the tiny procession of cars came to a stop inside the cemetery they'd chosen as a resting place, Peter considered that the service really hadn't gone as badly as he'd thought it might. From standing and receiving their relatives and various and assorted family friends, to the message itself, to the carrying out of the three walnut caskets – time had moved at its usual dizzying pace, and the young man was grateful for its blurred passage. He was so tired. He'd forgotten what it was like to attend to pressing details and formulate plans on very little sleep. 

Sighing heavily, Peter stepped from the car and turned to give Susan his assistance. For a brief moment he thought she would refuse, but after a tense second or two, she slid her gloved hand into his and slipped out to stand beside him with murmured thanks.

He gave her a gentle squeeze in return, and with a small sigh, she tentatively rested her head on his shoulder. Unfortunately, the narrow brim of her fashionable black hat jabbed him hard in the neck, causing him to clear his throat uncomfortably and shuffle into a more tenable position. Susan stiffened and pulled away.

"Shove it, you two," came Edmund's voice from behind them, "You're holding up the show."

"Sorry," Peter apologized, moving to allow his younger brother exit. Edmund stretched a bit, and then turned to pull a small black case from the back seat where he'd been sitting.

A muted explosion came from Susan's direction, and the brothers turned to see her narrowed eyes fastened on the case before they moved to glare at each of them in turn. "I hope that's not what I think it is, Ed," she said finally, her wan cheeks flushing with heat, "You two had better not make a scene here."

Edmund held the case carefully beneath his arm and gazed back at her with that mild expression he wore whenever he was going to go right ahead and do whatever he had decided regardless of the opposition. Susan colored deeper; she knew exactly what that look meant.

She stepped closer and glared up at him with anger limning every line of her slim body. "I swear, Edmund Randall, if you do what I think you're going to do, here, right here in front of all our friends and relatives, I'll…I'll never speak to you again! I…Lion's mane, I swear it!"

The teenager's deep brown eyes darkened, just the tiniest bit, and Peter saw a muscle in his jaw twitch. "Threats do not become you, Susan," he replied intently, his voice hoarse with strain, the words clipped and menacing, "and they certainly will not stop me. Our sister was a queen of Narnia, and she _will_ be given the respect that is her due."

Susan went dangerously still and quiet, and they stood rigid, locked in a fierce, silent battle of wills that was beginning to attract the attention of everyone nearby. A chill ran down Peter's spine, and the fine hairs on his neck and along his arms prickled with his sudden alarm. He'd not seen Edmund settle himself in a combat-ready stance for a very long time, and he didn't think his sister realized what she'd provoked. The older boy tensed, ready to put himself bodily between them if necessary.

"Susan, Edmund," he said, touching her arm carefully, "This does no good, please."

She roughly shrugged his hand away and remained focused on Edmund, who stared calmly back at her, immovable. "I mean it, Edmund," she whispered.

Her brother drew a deep breath in through his nose, as if preparing to endure great pain. "Then so be it," he said.

"Here now, is everything all right?" Aunt Harriet said as she came up to them, and the atmosphere suddenly collapsed in upon itself, leaving Peter breathless and afraid that irreparable harm had been done.

"Yes, Aunt," Susan said, turning round, her usually tasteful makeup appearing garish and over-bright against the paleness of her skin. "We were just coming along now."

Their mother's sister looked at each of them carefully, her blue eyes skeptical. "Very well, then," she said, "The rest of the pallbearers are ready, boys – they're waiting for you."

* * *

This was the worst part about funerals, Edmund thought as he braced his legs against the weight of the last casket and tried to avoid tripping on the uneven tuffs of earth, grimacing at the pain in his knee. The whole putting-them-in-the-ground bit always gave him the willies, and now he would have to watch it happen to his parents and to Lucy. The finality of it all brought a wellspring of deep sorrow and a paradoxical profound gratefulness that the whole dog-and-pony show would soon be ended. 

They came to the gravesite and carefully maneuvered the casket onto its waiting stand, and the minister and the rest of the mourners stepped back, giving the three children a few moments of silence together before the service would resume.

Peter stood in the middle, his blue eyes already overflowing. He placed an arm around Susan's stiff shoulders, drawing her close to his side, and looking to Edmund, held out his other hand. Suddenly feeling as though he were ten years old again, with uncertainty and fear and sadness choking him, the teenager curled his fingers around his brother's and found them in a grip so tight it hurt.

"I'm an orphan now," he thought abruptly, hearing Susan's quiet sobs and the soft hiccups that overtook Peter whenever he truly wept, "We all are."

They finally took their seats, and Reverend Thomas stepped forward to finish the service with a few words. Edmund hardly heard him. He examined the caskets in front of them, the dark wood gleaming in the midday sun, and gulped back the hard knot of emotion clogging his throat.

His father would never again sit up with him over a late-night cup of tea – he would never be able to discuss his schooling, or vent criticism about his professors, or maybe even – perhaps – ask advice someday about finding a helpmate. His mother would never again bake him that coconut cake he liked so much for his birthday, or help him with math, or encourage his musical pursuits, or exasperate him with her fussing.

And Lucy… Cheerful, joyful, faithful, maddening, pestering, perceptive, valiant Lucy. What would he do without her?

Edmund turned his face into Peter's shoulder, his tears soaking the fabric of his brother's best dress jacket. It was as though a deep pit had opened up inside him – onlookers be damned, he _was_ a king after all and allowed such release – and he couldn't seem to stop crying. He felt his hand clasped firmly once more, and a kiss was pressed to his head.

"It's going to be all right, Eddie," Peter whispered, his breath warm on Edmund's hair, "It will be all right. I've promised Mum I'll look after you all, and I mean to."

"And a ruddy good job of it you've done so far," Edmund returned to the soggy fabric, giving voice to the words but not the hatred that had colored them lifetimes past.

Peter chuckled. "Look sharp now; it's nearly your turn."

The youngest Pevensie sat up quickly and reached down to his side where the small black case had been placed in readiness. He remembered the fury and fear in Susan's eyes earlier and so hesitated for an instant before picking the case up and undoing the clasps as unobtrusively as possible.

* * *

"…and to close our service, the children would like to pay their last respects with a special tribute. Peter? Susan? Edmund?" 

Peter heard a surprised inhalation come from his sister as they stood and went to the caskets once more.

"Peter?" she hissed, "Peter, please, how does this pay respects?"

"Hush, Su," he returned, "The wreaths are there just to your left. Surely you remember?"

He fancied a strangled growl came from his usually proper, ladylike sister, although it was too quiet to be heard by anyone else. She did as he'd requested, however, picking up the first wreath and moving to place it on their father's casket. After doing the same for their mother, she made as if to finish with Lucy, but Peter reached out and stopped her.

"Edmund," he said, and his younger brother stepped forward, holding in his hands the old cavalry bugle he'd saved from a decrepit antique shop several years back. Polished lovingly to a golden shine and kept in perfect working order, the bugle was as close as Edmund could come to the one he'd left behind in Narnia.

The teenager shot him a questioning glance, flicked his gaze briefly to Susan and back to Peter, who nodded encouragingly. The older boy then faced his youngest sister's casket and straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. "Once a queen in Narnia, always a queen," he said softly, "Rest well, beloved sister, Lucy the Valiant. May Aslan himself greet you and take you to his country in peace."

The traditional words having been spoken, he heard Edmund take a deep breath and begin to play.

Clear, crisp, and true, the clarion call of the bugle blazed sweetly through the air. The royal fanfare of Narnia rang out like a fresh, fragrant breeze from some far off land, stirring hearts and bringing hope. Years of disuse had driven bits of the tune from memory, but Edmund filled in with notes of his own and forged ahead, his heart happy for the first time since the crash.

The small congregation of mourners stood a little straighter, held their heads a little higher, feeling as though they had woken from a dull, gray dream to a world full of glorious color and scent, fair faces and forms. It almost seemed the whole cemetery – trees, flowers, birds, squirrels, and perhaps even the dead themselves – held its breath to listen.

Susan stood as if turned to stone, her face white as rice paper, tears flowing down her cheeks. Finally stirring and moving as one asleep, she bent in a deep, graceful curtsey before placing the last wreath on her sister's coffin.

And as the last notes of the fanfare faded away into the warm spring air, through his heartbreak, Peter High King of Narnia smiled.


	6. Beauty From Pain

**AN:** Many thanks to all readers and reviewers. I'm very glad you enjoyed this - hopefully, depending on the behavior of my muses, there will be more to come in this 'universe', so stay tuned.  
The 'stomping instep' move and the 'you cold, I'm freezing' routine come from the delightful and very kind elecktrum. (waves) Thanks!_  
_

* * *

_Here I am at the end of me (at the end of me)  
Trying to hold to what I can't see  
I forgot how to hope  
This night's been so long  
I cling to your promise there will be a dawn_

_After all this has passed  
I still will remain  
After I've cried my last  
There'll be beauty from pain  
Though it won't be today  
Someday I'll hope again  
And there'll be beauty from pain  
You will bring beauty from my pain  
+ Beauty from Pain, _bridge and chorus, by Superchick

**5. Beauty From Pain**

The clock read quarter after eleven. Peter rubbed his eyes and blinked wearily before glancing back down at the papers spread willy-nilly over the small kitchen table. How could it have gotten so late so quickly? The last time he had noticed, the sun was setting and painting the cabinets and walls a rosy ochre. Had anyone bid him a good night? He racked his memory, found he couldn't recall, and wasn't terribly surprised.

He stood and stretched, and then made his way to the tap to fill the battered black teakettle. The house was still – his aunt and uncle had gone to bed, and he assumed Susan and Edmund had as well. That was good – he needed a bit of peace and quiet.

This last week had been full of hustle-bustle with errands needing to be run, arrangements needing to be made, and relatives and friends passing in and out, in and out of the house, packing furniture and appliances and clothes and knick-knacks: telling stories, reliving memories, and discussing the future. There was much to be done and decided, and Peter was grateful for the help and advice of his aunt and uncle. He knew what to do in Narnia, but not so much here.

Leaning back against the countertop, the young man let his gaze roam over the familiar features of the kitchen. The worn linoleum, an expertly patched tear in the wallpaper, the cracked Formica tabletop, the brand-new curtains his mother had made just before the crash – each appliance and piece of furniture seemed a kind friend full of happy and sad and in-between memories, one he would miss dearly.

Funny how time moved so quickly, regardless of circumstances – his jagged, ever-present sorrow and grief had gradually dulled and formed into a similarly constant ache. Peter knew eventually the pain would fade and dissipate into bittersweet memories, but for now it weighed upon him like a suit of armor and made breathing difficult. He massaged his chest gently with a slight frown. He hadn't had an attack for quite some time and didn't want to start up again now.

The kettle suddenly whistled loudly, making him jump in surprise, and Peter hurriedly took it from the burner, hoping he hadn't woken anyone. The cup, strainer, and tea were ready and waiting, saved from being packed up by a foresighted aunt, and he poured the boiling water with a deft hand, wishing instead for some of Susan's cambric tea, albeit laced generously with brandy as well as milk.

"Mind making another cup, Pete?"

Edmund's voice came unexpectedly from the doorway, and Peter jumped again, nearly spilling the contents of the kettle down his front. "Well done, Ed," he said, annoyed, "A little more warning next time, eh?"

"Sorry," the teenager said, not sounding a bit repentant. He ambled into the room and folded his lanky body into a chair. "Just trying to keep your reflexes sharp. Never know when they'll come in handy."

"Oh, ha ha and ha," huffed Peter, prompting an insolent smirk in response. "You'll have to dig another cup out of the box there, sport."

When this was duly done, the second up was poured, and the older boy passed it to his brother and sat down, leaning back with a sigh. For a good while, they said nothing, sitting in companionable silence and carefully sipping the hot tea.

"You should be in bed, Eddie," Peter said at last. "It's late."

His younger brother stared at him incredulously over the teacup and then lowered it to the saucer. "I won't even dignify that groaner with a response, brother mine," he replied, nodding towards the paperwork on the table, "Whatcha' working on?"

He reached over and picked one up, running his eyes over the bold black heading and the form beneath. What he read made him start, look it over again, and then glance up at Peter, who squirmed a bit in his chair.

"And when were you thinking about telling Su and me about all this, then?" he asked.

"When I'd received a positive response," Peter said slowly, "I didn't want to get your hopes up."

Edmund snorted. "I don't think you have to worry about Su," he said and then grimaced at the pained expression that crossed his brother's face. "Sorry, Pete."

The older boy forced away the hurt that stabbed him with every reminder of Susan's cold withdrawal – she had been as good as her word and barely given either him or Edmund the time of day since the funeral two weeks ago – and smiled humorlessly. "'Sokay," he said, waving a hand, and then hesitated. "What about you?"

"You mean would I be content living under your roof, eating your food, and being under your protection and provision?" the teenager asked with a sudden twinkle, "Since I did that for about fifteen years or so in Narnia, I think I could manage it here."

"Oh, come now," Peter protested, "You did not."

"High King of Narnia, Lord of Cair Paravel, remember?" Edmund said, "I was king in my own equal right, yes, but the final responsibility for all of us _and_ the country lay in your more than capable hands, brother, placed there by Aslan. I certainly had no problem with the arrangement."

Peter sighed a bit and rolled his eyes. "This isn't Narnia, Ed."

"No," the younger boy responded, "but I guess what I'm saying is, I would be honored to have you as my guardian. In fact, I don't know why you need a form – I think you've already been doing the job. The thing is," he paused and eyed his brother carefully, as if gauging his reaction. "I don't know if they'll let you."

"Well, thank you for being optimistic," Peter said, a little stung by this apparent lack of faith. "They might. I have a decent job, and I could certainly get another if required."

Edmund blew out a soft breath. "Listen," he began, "Peter, I did mean it would be an honor. You've been taking care of me my whole life, both with and without my thanks, and you've done well – why stop now? As nice as they are, I would _much_ rather live with you than Aunt Harriet and Uncle Tom, or, God forbid, Aunt Alberta and Uncle Harold, or Uncle Roger."

The older boy swallowed, feeling a suspicious pricking around the edges of his eyes. Lion's mane, was he ever going to stop choking up at every slightly soppy moment? "But…" he said, anticipating the rest of Edmund's argument.

"But," his brother echoed, "You're only twenty and not even really out in your own flat or anything yet. And a job at the Crown of Avalon archives is swell – and perfect for you, Pete – but I'm not sure the good old government will think it's enough, even with what Dad left us added in. It's just," he ran his fingers through his dark hair, "We've got to be realistic about all of this."

Peter looked back down at the paperwork and knew that Edmund was right. "Well," he said, "That may be true, but I'm going to try anyway. Who knows, right?"

The teenager grinned suddenly. "Right."

"Besides, even if you and Susan do end up with Aunt Harriet, eventually you'll be set free. Whenever that is, I'm sure I'll have a place, and you can come live with me." Peter said, "And then look out, world!"

Edmund snickered and drained his teacup. "Yeah."

"Help me wash up?" the older boy asked, standing and moving to the sink. His younger brother nodded and grabbed the lone dishtowel off the rack.

When they were finished, Peter gathered up the forms and other papers, and the two left the kitchen in darkness and made their way up to the room they'd shared since boyhood. Already the great majority of their belongings were neatly tucked and folded into boxes, with only the bare essentials left out for use.

"Hard to believe the auction is tomorrow," Edmund said, throwing back the covers and climbing into bed as Peter buttoned up his pajamas.

"Estate sale, Ed," Peter corrected, "Susan's set me straight at least twenty times this week."

"D'you think many people will come?"

When his brother made a noncommittal noise in reply, the teenager gave him a quick glance. "No using your inheritance to buy everything back, now, Pete," he said, only half joking. "Where would you put it all? You kept enough junk as it is."

He got a pillow full in the face as a reward for his cheek and leapt back out of bed, tackling Peter around the waist. The next few minutes were full of flying fists and feet, pillows and blankets, gleeful insults, and much choked laughter as the brothers cheerfully pummeled one another, crashing into boxes and beds and empty dressers.

"Ow!" Peter howled, clutching his bare foot where Edmund had stomped on his instep, "That's _my_ move!"

Edmund tossed his head, his deep brown eyes snapping with delight. "Oh, that's rich. You stole it from me, and you know it!" he retorted triumphantly.

The older boy growled good-naturedly and charged the teenager, grabbing him around the neck and wrestling him down into a headlock. "Who's the king now, huh, Eddie?" he panted, holding on tight as Edmund squirmed and twisted like an eel. "Come on, who's the High King?"

His younger brother elbowed him hard in the stomach, and Peter squeezed a little tighter, laughing breathlessly. "Wrong answer; try again!"

"_What in the name of heaven and earth is going on in here_?"

The boys froze and then slowly disentangled and turned around sheepishly. Aunt Harriet stood in the doorway in her dressing gown, her graying brown hair sticking out from her braid in wispy clumps. Susan stood behind her with disgust written on her face.

"Sorry, Aunt," Edmund said guiltily, surreptitiously and ruthlessly stepping on Peter's toe to keep his brother's big mouth shut. "I started it."

"Goodness gracious, it sounded like a herd of African elephants was loose!" she said sternly, "Don't you two have better things to do than wake the whole house at this hour?"

"They can't help it, Aunt," Susan said, sending Peter and Edmund a poisonous look. "They don't have very good memories, either of them – you'd think we were on holiday instead of in mourning!"

With one last icy glare, she swept back across the hall and slammed her door. Aunt Harriet looked back at the brothers with a weary sigh. "We've a long and busy day ahead of us tomorrow, boys," she said. "No more midnight brawling, now. It's time you got into bed and went to sleep."

"No, Aunt," they chorused, "Yes, Aunt." She raised her eyebrow with a small smile and gave them each a kiss on the cheek before taking her leave.

They remade their beds, climbed in, and Peter turned off his bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

"Lion's mane, I'd like to give Susan a good poke in the nose," Edmund said, tossing onto his side. "What, she's the only one around here grieving?"

"As much as such an action might relieve you, she _is_ both our sister and a queen, no matter how far she has turned away," Peter replied, feeling that dull ache settle in his chest heavier than ever. "And you are both a knight and a king."

"You don't have to tell me, Pete, I know," his brother said crossly, tossing again. After a short stretch of silence, he spoke again, softer this time. "I miss her. And Lucy. And Mum and Dad."

The older boy turned his face into his pillow, biting his tongue to keep from breaking down. "I do, too," he said thickly.

There was another pause. "Will this ever get better, Peter?" Edmund asked, uncertainty lining his voice, "How can we ever be a family again?"

"We _are_ still a family, Ed," Peter said, sitting and throwing back his blankets. "All three of us, Susan included, even if she doesn't like it. The worst of it is, I'm afraid you're both still stuck with me."

The younger boy sighed in mock horror. "Oh, the humanity."

Peter crossed the space to Edmund's bed and nudged his brother. "Here, you rude little beast, shove over."

Bedclothes rustled. "What, you cold?" Edmund questioned, and the older boy could hear the smile.

"Freezing," he said, and the teenager sat up and made room with a soft chuckle, allowing Peter to drape an arm around his shoulders and draw him close. They sat for a while without saying anything, taking strength and comfort one from the other, listening to the creaks and groans of the old house settling, and remembering.

"We just have to take the high road with Susan and repay evil with good," Peter continued at last, "and hope and pray and pray some more that her heart is softened. God has promised to bring beauty from ashes, you know."

"I know, you're right, and I'll try," Edmund said drowsily, leaning into Peter's warmth. "But I'd still like to poke her one."

"Well, the next time you get the urge, poke me instead," the older boy replied, and Edmund snickered. "I promise I won't slug you back."

"Could I get that in writing?" he asked, and Peter knuckled his head.

"Not a chance," he said, "Good night, Edmund the Just," and gave him a quick kiss on the hair.

Edmund ducked too late and shoved him away, laughing. "Good night, oh, magnificent one," he returned, "Sleep well."

"Yes," Peter said, getting back into his own bed and sinking down into the warmth of his covers, feeling somewhat better at being reminded there was always hope. "Sleep well."

And against all odds, they did.

_The End_


End file.
